


Let it labamrazûkh

by bubbysbub



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbysbub/pseuds/bubbysbub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is feeling... off. Not sad, not really, well, maybe? </p><p>He wasn't really sure what he was feeling, just that it was the most wonderful time of the year. But not really all that wonderful.</p><p>Of course, dwarrows are an unpredictable lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let it labamrazûkh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drakyrna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakyrna/gifts).



> A gift for the most amazing drakyrna, who is a gorgeous person, as well as a phenomenal artist. Please, dearest peeps, go and have a peek at Katy's wonderful art blog, drakyrna-art over on tumblr. WELL worth the time. 
> 
> Also, give a warm hand for the amazing beta can't-list-it-yet-cause-this-is-all-supposed-to-be-anonymous, who returned this in a few hours with lots of smart things to say. She's a clever clods who knows science and music and horticultural history and hilarious additions of Chubby Brownlock, and I had a BALL sending the original file to her with 'christmas' instead of 'yule', just to get her screaming about NO CHRISTIANS IN MIDDLE EARTH GAH! I am easily amused. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, lovely people!!

About the third time Bilbo fell flat on his face in the snow, he realised he should have asked for help.

Oh, but he really had wanted this to be a surprise. In the three years since he had been living in Erebor, two as honoured Lord and husband to the king- a role he shared with one beloved, burly, baldy, tattooed dwarf- he'd not had time or opportunity to really consider celebrating any of the seasonal events a Hobbit would, in the Shire. The first few years had been full of fuss and striving for some sense of stability and prosperity, and indulging in parties and odd (for Dwarrows) little celebrations was just not on the agenda.

Of course he still paid tribute to those that mattered, and left offerings in the Winter for the beasts and birds to help them through the lean times, but it wasn't quite the same, was it? The best way of acknowledging any important event of the year was with a party. Hobbits were the very best at celebrating in style, of all the races in all of Middle Earth!

Dwarrows did indeed hold some celebrations, though not quite the same ones as Hobbits did. They had a midsummer festival, but Bilbo was fairly certain by their lax attitudes to the _date_ of holding the festival, that the event was more a natural consequence of an excess of produce available for trade. There was also an autumnal celebration that his tutors in Dwarven culture had tried to explain many times, but that still mostly baffled Bilbo. He was fairly certain half of what they spoke of was dependant on instincts inherent in being a Dwarrow, which they often forgot he _wasn't_. Not that Bilbo was going to object to that, either.

As for the winter celebrations, Durin's Day was the most important, being the first day of the season, and the start of their calendar year. 

Which was where the problem began.

Bilbo had found -and here, he should note, he had only experienced this twice since the mountain had actually been settled, so he could not really say for sure if it were so always- that after Durin's Day, the Dwarrows of Erebor tended to turn.... quiet. It was the start of their new year, Durin's Day, and so afterwards, the Dwarrows tended to turn their attentions with great fervour to their crafts, a renewal of their excitement in wake of a whole new year, Bilbo had gathered. There was nothing wrong with that, at all. Bilbo could understand that there was a time and place for all things.

It was just... well. Fine. So it got a bit lonely when they were all busy tucking themselves away in their forges and studios and mines and such for days at a time. Especially when Bilbo knew what was happening in the Shire, come this time of year.

It made a strange sort of sense, if you thought about it. The weather outside was growing colder and colder, the snow starting to pile up against the mountain each morning- and if there were anything in this world that Bilbo could say with certainty that Dwarrows hated more than _elves_ , it was definitely snow. It made complete sense that they would all retreat back into their mountain, and devote themselves to hard work and keeping warm.

Hobbits, on the other hand, enjoyed snow. For the most part, the Shire was a gentle sort of place, weather included. And even if it were cold, and nothing growing in the ground to tend, and the animals all tucked away for the winter, well. That just gave them more reason to really get out and see their neighbours, and find more to celebrate. Like being alive. 

And Bilbo sort of... missed that.

So, being that he was a stubborn sort of fellow, and Thorin and Dwalin had been spending an inordinate amount of time in the forge, or whacking at each other with different objects (and that wasn't even a euphemism, sadly) or even being kings -which it wasn't as if there were much to even do, at the moment, being that most of the mountain were tucked away getting things done, and the Men and Elves were spending all of their time doing whatever it was those races did when it was cold out. They were awfully busy. All the time.

Bilbo, quite frankly, missed his lovers. And the rest of his stubborn sods.

So, it was time to do it Hobbit style, oh yes it was. If he could, you know, do it all on his own.

Which is how he had come to be face down in a snow drift for the third time.

A Hobbit is a stubborn sort of creature, and so, Bilbo would roll himself out of this snow pile, climb on up this silly snow bank -without toppling again- and chop him off a nice sized limb of tree, yes he would. And he would take that limb, and plonk it in his makeshift stand, and decorate it with all the shiny bits and pieces he had found, and the ribbons and the pinecones and all sorts of things, and see what sort of response that got him. And he would cook the feast that he had prepared, and send off his demands for his family to be in attendance, and he would place out the gifts he had been working on, and it would be perfect. _Perfect_.

***

His tree... did not get much of a response at all, which was a pity. It really had come together beautifully, if Bilbo did say so himself, and he'd spent a lovely afternoon decking it out in all his shiny bits and pieces. But his lot were busy, and he had gone to bed without having seen a one of them, in the end. Instead, he had spent his evening carefully scripting beautiful invitations to send to all the important people in his life, to join him for a special supper the evening after next. He'd gone to bed alone, but pleased that he would be gathering with them all the following evening.

He was still alone when he woke, with a message of apology with the corridor guard from his great boofs. At least they had realised that they were working through the eve. There had been times they had been so busy forging, whole days would go by without them noticing the time!

At least the Dwarrows that worked in the palatial kitchens were still around, and being that they were all very fond of Bilbo, it wasn't really an issue to set aside everything he needed to cook a grand feast for his pack of stone people, what with the sudden boom of plenty that surrounded the mountains. Not so surprising, Bilbo supposed, what with the piles of gold that flowed freely these days.

Still, the geese were a lovely find, and Bilbo had pleaded and traded and been quite free with some small rubies until he had a pile of apples (still a bit of a rarity- it had taken _quite_ a few rubies), some _precious_ spices from the east, and his pick of the herbs. Dwarves, too, he had found, had a propensity for wild boar, so he had contracted a hunter amongst the Men to bring him a few choice pickings from the vast forests to the Southeast, and dress them, of course, so the meats were hanging in the wonderful cold rooms of the palatial kitchens, and ready for him to set to roast. There would be juicy tender meats, and vegetables in sophisticated sauces, the fluffiest of warmed breads, and _plenty_ of sweets. He was ready to cook his little Hobbit heart out!

At least, he was. Until the missives started to arrive. 

Bilbo skimmed through the latest note an apologetic runner had handed him. He sighed as he slowly removed his favourite apron, and placed it on the hook in his little corner of the kitchen.

A fool, he was.

Oh, Bilbo was a silly hobbit! Hadn't he been repeatedly thinking to himself how the Dwarrows all seemed so busy lately? What sort of response did Bilbo think he was going to get when politely asking them to dinner on such short notice?

According to the dozen or so notes delivered to him, Bombur was busy tied up with the construction of a new series of living spaces further back into the mountain, and his youngest was taken ill besides, so his wife Yfal was busy tending to their child, with Bombur's mother Drakhn seeing to the other bairns. Bofur was overseeing a critical specimen analysis and three new mine sites, and Bifur and Rifur were busy crafting a large order for their store. 

Dori had taken his mother and sisters to Dale for a few days, Nori was on a task for Thorin, and Ori was attending a symposium dinner with some colleagues and assorted like-minded fellows. Glóin was overseeing the transfer of a significant payment of gold out of the mountain, Farn was running her soldiers through a training simulation, and Óin and Benny were visiting Benny's cousin for the day. Balin and Galf were in meetings with a disgruntled union, and Holf was at a crucial stage in the assembly of the newest piece. 

The lads and Yani were part of the regiment running the strange war games Glóin's wife ran, and Dís and Yuna had both taken to the forges and not emerged.

And Thorin and Dwalin were busy being leaders of a mountain full of Dwarrow.

Well. Another occasion then. But not that night, obviously.

At least all his ingredients would keep, and do well to feed the mountain folk in any case, not that there was any shortages at all, oh no, Bilbo personally made sure there was always plenty to eat for every soul that made home in the mountain. But his boars and such could be set to roast another night, and would not be wasted. 

For Bilbo, he would continue his day as normal, and enjoy a solitary tea alone. 

There would be other occasions.

****

There was a vague sensation as Bilbo woke the next morning, of having been colder than he preferred as he slept. That, unfortunately meant one specific thing: he had slept alone.

Again.

It was not the first time, of course, Thorin was king, and Dwalin, a lord of his people, and they were dwarves of craft to boot. There had been times that _Bilbo_ was the one that hadn't made it to bed, what with his own diplomatic responsibilities. This was not a new thing.

And it was not as if Bilbo were suddenly hurt or surprised by this. Of course not. He understood the responsibilities of leadership, and the unfortunate effect of giving up a fair amount of time to it. He wasn't selfish enough to expect anything different; he'd known what he was signing up for. And he knew without a doubt that they only missed the opportunity to spend the night with him if they absolutely had no other choice in the matter.

That being said, Bilbo was far from perfect, and he was lonely, and still quite disappointed that his impromptu celebration was to be a bit of a non event.

Bilbo snorted.

He was working himself into a right mood, that was the truth. There was no reason to be carrying on so, he was a grown Hobbit, with wonderful husbands and the most steadfast of family and friends, with a life he had never expected, and was still, at times, a little worried that he might not deserve. He had a lot more than most could dream of, no mistake, and far from any reason to complain.

'Only a fool wastes a fine day away watching the horizon for clouds,' his da would have said. There was no cause to be borrowing trouble, that was for sure, and a sensible Hobbit would pull his head out of the pillow and get on with things.

It wasn't as if he didn't have plenty to be getting on with, after all. Perhaps he could head on down and see if Yfal could use some help with her sick youngen, and the kitchen staff always appreciated a spot of help and conversation both. There were books galore to entertain, and correspondence with Bard and Thranduil to attend to at some point as well. He had plenty to do.

Unburying himself, and rolling towards the edge of the gigantic bed he more often than not shared with two snoring hairy gits, he stopped his sleepy shuffling when he noticed the tray awaiting him. 

Well. His two buggers hadn't been _completely_ absent the whole night.

They'd left him breakfast. Some lovely savoury rolls, and a bowl of creamed porridge, and a tiny nosegay of the funny little purplish cave flowers that grew under the soft natural glow emitted from deep within the phosphor caverns. 

It was a little hard to mope around sighing like a rejected suitor when his fellows were being thoughtful with little acts such as this.

Ridiculous creatures.

Really, winter celebrations be damned. It was one day, and he'd had hundreds full of everything it stood for already, hundreds more to come, if Bilbo had anything to say about it. There were many years ahead of him to introduce his Dwarrows to his Hobbity celebrations.

***

He was humming as he wandered down the halls, munching on the last of his rolls. He'd indulged in a full pot of tea, one of his finer Shire blends that were hoarded for the best (or worst, depending) days. His tree was pretty and glowing in their sitting room, and he'd eaten slowly so he could enjoy the sight of a beautiful job, if he did say so himself. Now, with a nicely full belly, after a calm morning, and the promise of a nice walk with the admittedly pungent -but sweet, and lovely in the thought behind them- smell of his posy following him, he was a happy Hobbit.

Yes, a most pleasant morning it had been.

Really, Bilbo was truly blessed with a wonderful life. He may be dwelling about it, but the winter celebrations were always tinged with an air of introspective review, so it was reasonable, he supposed. And if he wasn't going to be spending the day fussing around creating a feast, then he would carry some blessings of his own to the forest. It was a good way to spend the day. 

And he really was feeling rather introspective. 

It was a nice crisp day outside, and despite the cold, and the mounds of snow, the sun was shining. He'd decided to lay blessing to the east today, so he turned his feet in that direction, and hummed some more as he stomped through snow drifts, particularly pleased with himself for remembering to wear boots.

(He'd not worn boots for most of his life, after all. Remembering them was surprisingly difficult.)

His humming turned to song, and he worked his way through most of the winter celebrational songs common amongst the Shire as he trekked. He had a fine singing voice, if he did say so himself, and the quiet and the banked snow gave a choral sort of tone to his singing that was pleasant. 

Dwalin and Thorin had always enjoyed his singing. They often encouraged him to take up a tune when they were gathered in the evening, attending to quiet tasks and distractions in the evening. Even better when they joined in, Dwalin with his low, rumbling tones, and Thorin with his beautiful baritone.

A sigh found its way out in place of his cheerful song, and he slowed to stop under a large oak tree. He did so have such an unreasonable attachment to oaks.

Alright, so yes, he was most definitely moping, Bilbo thought as he dropped to his knees and started clearing away enough snow to dig a nice deep trench. 

It's just that... it was just...

Oh, _fine_. 

Three years now, and Bilbo knew he wasn't really a Hobbit any more. Oh no. Not with his hair past his shoulders and braided with gems and intricate twists of metal, not wearing furs and _boots_ and fine gold chains, not bedding with two Dwarrow Lords and negotiating trade agreements with elves and butting heads with Men over fair land usage. But just as he was not a hobbit any more, he wasn't _really_ a dwarf, not really.

It wasn't as if he would prefer his old life, either. He was happy here, living as he was, and he really, _really_ shouldn't want for more. Really. He shouldn't!

If he were in the Shire right now, though, things would be so much different.

Hobbits were almost the opposite of Dwarrows, really. While a Dwarf took winter as an excuse to tuck in to his mountain and devote himself to his craft, Hobbits were almost the complete opposite. There was little farming to be done in the winter, not a lot of anything to be done, really, except keep the woodpiles stocked and the barns maintained, and so Hobbits became very social. 

It was sort of a societal defence mechanism, if Bilbo really thought on it. They were a people that lived according to the land, and when the land was cold and dormant, Hobbits had to trust solely on whether they had done a good enough job across the rest of the seasons to make it through the harsh of winter. Their response to that, was to become closer as a community. To celebrate what they had in the now, and hold close those concepts of family and hope and the quiet joys, because who knew if they would make it through the long, cold winter.

Call him selfish, but Bilbo really _missed_ that. He missed his family, Hobbit _and_ dwarf, and he missed his lovers. He missed them, and he very desperately wanted to stomp around the mountain and have a good long shout at everybody to stop _ignoring_ him. He wanted to tuck in between people he loved and comfort himself with some sense of belonging.

It felt selfish and churlish to be resenting the others just because he felt a little down, but there it was.

Another deep sigh, and he took out his hand spade to start digging. He needed a nice deep, wide hole for his offering, past the depth of his elbow, if he were to keep the smell from foraging animals, and to put his offering on a nice level for emerging earthworms, come the spring. 

He had vegetable peels and egg shells and plenty of unusable offal and fish guts. A nice variety of good things to break down as the weather warmed and give the earth a nice replenish of nutrients. A dozen or so trenches around this portion of the striving forest, and things would soon turn lush and beautiful.

It was harder to help the land in the warmer months. Bilbo had many duties, as his position demanded, and almost every day there was something to run around after. It was only when the weather started to cool that Bilbo typically found time to make these treks and dig in his offerings. Today, he'd also leave cakes of seed and suet hung in the trees, for the birds and other creatures that still lingered in the cold. (Never using fat from the cooking pots of course. All Hobbits knew better than to use seasoned fats in their offerings – and fat from the cooking pot would include cooked meat juices, and rapidly become a breeding ground for all manner of sickness! These things had to be done _properly_. It was only polite.) Hobbits helped their neighbours survive the best they could in the winter time. 

(The first time he had left offerings for the birds, eighteen of Erebor's ravens had come to thank him personally. As city birds, they were well fed themselves, but the rest of their avian brethren were often not so fortunate. They very much had appreciated Bilbo's efforts.) 

His ground offerings had paid off over the years, as before, what forest had survived around the base of the mountain during Smaug’s reign had been scraggly and miserable; the ground had been all but barren under the twisting branches of what trees still struggled to hold firm, and even the trees themselves held little leaf, their bark dry and crusted.

Now, well, the absence of Smaug itself was enough for nature to strive to repair itself, but Bilbo had still taken anything that could not be eaten by the inhabitants of the mountain and surrounding areas, and buried it in holes all over the forest, dozens and dozens over the winter. The birds came for his suet cakes, left their droppings chock full of digested seed, and by spring the first year of inhabiting the mountain, the ground had been bursting into life, wildflowers and thick grasses and berry bushes, and all sorts of wondrous plants that Bilbo had never seen before, being that they were eastern varieties.

Insects and small animals and birds returning to the area were doing a very good job themselves, of helping bring the land back to flourish, but Bilbo still took his offerings to places where the growth was poorly. He was a Hobbit, and this is what hobbits did. Even if they weren't really Hobbits any more.

Honestly, Bilbo's own self pity was starting to irritate him quite a bit. A cancelled feast did not a catastrophe make. He was being ridiculous.

Trench dug from the base of this tree towards the next, Bilbo took up his oiled sack, and started to shovel the food scraps into the hole. He'd likely have enough for quite a few of these holes today, and not far from him was a tree that had suffered under the attack of _something_ over the last season, judging by the scarring on the trunk, and so after he had filled this one in, he would do another four or five in the area, and lay his cakes, and wander home to prepare his no-doubt solitary meal.

He would feast alone, but he would toast his family and the joys that they brought him regardless.

That was fine.

***

The birds were already feasting by the time he was done digging in his offerings, and hanging the final suet cake, and he trooped home, somewhat tired but mostly happy after a fine day's work. The sun would set very soon, being that it was winter, and he was looking forward to the small feast he would put together for his own meal. He might even entreat the kitchen staff to heat some of the fine spiced mead that was a popular drink amongst the mountain. He'd eat by the fire, and admire his excellently decorated tree, and count off his blessings to himself.

And he would stop this ridiculous _moping_.

"Bilbo!" came the cry almost as soon as he had wandered in the gate and a trio of lads came barrelling around a corner after him, Fíli and Kíli with Wef in tow as usual. The youngest of their group gave a small smile which Bilbo returned with a wave around Fíli's shoulder before Kíli managed to squash Bilbo firmly between himself and his brother.

"Boys," Bilbo managed, from between the squish, and attempted to wriggle free. The lads paid no attention to his discomfort, and settled him more firmly between them, and Wef hid a smile behind his hand. 

Completely unhelpful.

"Is there a reason you're trying to suffocate your favourite uncle?" he managed to wheeze from between them, and Kíli laughed and snuffled a whiskery kiss across his cheek before they finally let him go with wide grins.

Really he shouldn't complain. His boys had settled into the role of princes of Erebor well, and with that responsibility had come a seriousness and focus from them that proved beyond any doubt that they were more than capable of one day ruling the mountain themselves -they _were_ Durins, after all. While their family couldn't be prouder of the lads and their accomplishments, it was becoming quite the rarity to see them play silly any more, and even if their occasional bursts of mischief caused strife, they were usually forgiven fairly quickly, if only because of the wide, carefree grins that were now far too few and far between, but still terribly infectious.

Bilbo was quite fortunate to be one of those few the lads would play silly with. He did appreciate it.

He just really liked breathing.

"Better," he said, straightening his coat, and scowling half-heartedly at them, but they did so look terribly pleased with themselves, that he could not help grinning along with them. 

"Alright, why are you accosting random passers-by instead of in training with Farn?" he asked, tugging them to walk with him, and exchanging a wink with Wef.

"Groj dislocated his knee," Fíli said with a shrug, as if that explained all.

Bilbo thought on it a moment.

"That doesn't seem like good enough reason for you lot to call something off," he offered after a while. It was true. He'd seen many a dwarf pop a part back into place and continue training or forging like nothing had happened.

"He dislocated it a total of fourteen times trying to pull of the same manoeuvre, before Wef punched him in the face and took over as team commander. Yani caught our target not ten minutes later." Kíli finished with a proud beam in Wef's direction, and an attempt at a ruffle of Wef's carefully groomed coif, which the younger lad ducked.

"Groj is an idiot," Wef said quietly, with a shrug and a rueful grin, and Bilbo could not help the abrupt bark of laughter that came from him at that. The lad was just so _quiet_ , it was easy at times to forget that he was a skilled warrior and learned scholar. And, of course, had been raised alongside Fíli and Kíli as their childhood companion. He had a stubborn streak to match their own, oh yes he did. If he hadn't, they would have eaten him alive.

Bilbo left his response to a non committal hum, as, well, there wasn't really much more to say to that, was there?

"In any case, Uncle sent us to ask what time we should gather to feast tonight?" Kíli did not seem to notice Bilbo's start of surprise, or that he almost tripped stopping abruptly.

"Oh, dear, lads, I'm afraid I had to cancel. Everybody was just so busy," Bilbo said hurriedly, worried now. He had just assumed. Nobody could come, and so he had assumed they knew it was off.

They'd all _cancelled_.

"We knew that," Fíli hurried to assure him. "But we were all done runnin' the course, and while we were reporting in with Uncle, Dwalin came and told him about the decorated tree in your sitting room, and once we realised that you'd sent invitations to everyone related to the Company-"

"We figured we'd missed something important," Kíli butted in. "So Uncle went and rounded them all up."

"But I've not done any of the cooking!" Bilbo yelped, the cold weight of panic setting in.

"Nah, Thorin asked the kitchen to whip something up this morning," Kíli said. 

"I think the King was worried when he could not find you. He wondered if perhaps he had missed a Hobbit custom of some import," Wef volunteered.

"I think they're even attempting to get the scones as good as yours," Fíli said cheerfully, and herded him on.

And Bilbo let him. To be honest, he was a bit shocked, really. He'd spent a whole day moping about the forest feeling sorry for himself, and _now_...

"Are you telling me that I am indeed hosting a feast after all, and I've not even made a cake?" Bilbo said, frowning to himself. Host to a feast he had not prepared- how disgraceful! No Shire Hobbit would ever forget the time that Chubby Brownlock had forgotten to write on his engagement tablet that he had invited gusts for tea and when they arrived he had no cakes for them! He had seen them coming towards his home and had been packed and ready to leave Hobbiton in disgrace before they knocked at this front door. Of course, that story had a happy ending as the young Grubb lass had seen the party arriving and rushed over with a dozen seedcakes and a few pots of berry jam. She had scones in the oven whilst the tea was brewing. Chubby had married her the following spring. Dwarrows had simply no idea of the impropriety of not having food for guests. For some reason, though, all three lads thought his upset hilarious. 

"I'd not worry overmuch, Bilbo. The kitchen staff have outdone themselves," Fíli said, steering him around a corner and nodding to a guard formation passing by.

"I can't believe you managed to find geese," Kíli wondered. "Dwalin is a sucker for geese."

"Probably why he tracked down geese," Wef muttered, though Bilbo pretended not to have heard that when all three snickered in a decidedly naughty way. 

Buggers.

"I'm covered in dirt and smelly things," Bilbo protested weakly. Why was he protesting? This _was_ what he wanted.

"You'll fit right in, then," Wef said airily, and Kíli snickered.

"You've time for a bath. Dwalin is still wrestling the hammer from Ma, and Bofur'll need an hour or so to trek back up from his excavation."

"Dori got back hours ago, and his ma brought sweeties from Dale," Fíli said with enthusiasm. Fíli was fond of his sweets.

"Stop fretting, it's going to be wonderful," Kíli said, and shoved him through a doorway.

***

The lads made him bathe in their own chambers, and brought him the dwarfliest pieces of his wardrobe to wear from his wardrobe, confound the little devils, and refused him entry to his own apartments on the whim of deciding that the preparations would be a surprise, and spent the last hour pestering him for stories and driving him to distraction.

They had been right, though. Oh, was he surprised.

 _Idiot_ dwarves. Always astonishing him at every turn.

Well, tradition usually dictated a certain variety of tree to bring inside and decorate, but it looked like his pillocks had found anything vaguely green in the surrounding area and uprooted it to shove into any spare inch of space left in his sitting room. And managed to drown the poor greenery in any scrap of drapable bling they could get their hands on.

The effect was very... astonishing.

Oh, alright, it was lovely, really, with the roaring fireplace and the _ridiculous_ amount of candles and lanterns spaced around the room, and his own tree still in pride of place, if a little more decorated than before. It was all very glittery, and quite cosy, with his horde settled in with tankards and boisterous laughter and great roaring cheers at his arrival.

And the _food_. Oh, his friends in the kitchen had been paying attention, then. 

"You've been very busy," Bilbo said faintly when Dwalin appeared beside him with a tankard and a whiskery buss on his cheek.

Dwalin hummed and pressed the mug into his hands and pulled him past Dís (laughing uproariously at a tale Farn was very enthusiastically telling, though they both spared a moment for too-tight one-armed hugs as he passed) and thieved a tray of biscuits right out of Bombur's hands, and tugged him over to the special love seat in the corner, that nobody dared to sit in, on pain of Thorin scowling at them.

 _Their_ seat. 

"There you are," Thorin said warmly, sliding away from a conversation with Glóin and Benny and taking his spot on the other side of Bilbo, and snuffling his own bristly kiss into Bilbo's neck on his way to snatching a biscuit. "We were wondering what was taking the lads so long to find you!"

"Hostage for stories, I'm afraid," Bilbo admitted, stealing his own biscuit, and also some proper kisses from both parties, though not very stolen, from their enthusiastic responses.

"Late for your own party; that sounds more like Thorin than you, love," Dwalin mused, and ignored Thorin's attempts to thump him over Bilbo's head.

"It would have helped had I known you were all suddenly available," Bilbo admonished gently, and both dwarves looked suitably chastised.

"Apologies, Imrilamá. We've been neglectin' you, haven't we?" Dwalin said morosely. Bilbo snagged a great paw from each to tug into his lap and pet gently.

"Not really, I know this time of year is one of quiet creation for you. I don't expect you to spend all your time running around seeing to my need for affection."

"But it is one of the most important things in the mountain," Thorin said, and Bilbo rolled his eyes. That didn't even really make sense!

"You two are ridiculous," he sighed, and let Dwalin push a biscuit between his lips while Thorin chuckled.

They watched for a moment as Ori was drawn into an impromptu wrestling match with Yuna, and one of Dori's nieces snuck under a table to strap Óin's boot to a low table. The poor table would not survive _that_ incoming disaster, but Bilbo really did not have the heart to ruin the little one's fun. Bofur was already on a table with a flute.

"It's the longest night of the year tonight," Bilbo yawned. He'd spent the day digging holes and hauling rotting rubbish about, and climbing trees. He was quite tired!

"Oh?" Thorin asked after a moment, when he said nothing else. 

"What do Hobbits do on the longest night of the year?" Dwalin asked.

"Well, this, I suppose," Bilbo admitted, and grinned when Wef and Kíli appeared with laden plates for the three of them and then scampered away again. Bilbo hummed happily around his first mouthful. The scones were really very close.

"This?" Thorin prodded a few minutes later around a mouthful of boar, greasy blobs already bobbing about in Thorin's impressive moustache. Oh well. At least getting his loves clean was quite enjoyable.

"Mmm, this. Loved ones gathered for simply the joy of the company, good food, gaudy decorations, and far too much ale," he said, reaching for his tankard.

"Fíli, bring me red wine, will you?" Thorin bellowed across the room, rolling his eyes and adding an exaggerated "please" to the end when Bilbo scowled, and Dwalin snickered into his plate.

"We've not really thought to ask you much about Hobbit holidays before, have we?" Dwalin said, as Fíli brought a wine cup, and the bottle as well, and Bifur chuckled his way over to refill Bilbo and Dwalin's tankards.

"Oh, we really don't have many," Bilbo said with a fair amount of exasperation. "Not formally. It's more an excuse for a party, more often than not." 

"Except this one," Thorin said. "It's not just an excuse for a party," he added, and Bilbo frowned into his plate, not really having an answer for that.

"Try this," Dwalin said, and handed him a sticky honey pastry that was a Dwarven speciality, layered through with seeds and nuts. Bilbo took it direct from Dwalin's fingers with his teeth, and grinned at the raised eyebrow of appreciation it got him.

Hook, line and sinker. He'd not sleep alone tonight, oh no.

"Cheeky Hobbit," Thorin said, his voice low and warm with amusement, and Bilbo laughed around his pastry.

"I suppose," he said, a moment later, chewing the last bite of his exceptionally sweet treat. "I suppose some events are important to Hobbits. Some of them. But then, I am not really a Hobbit anymore. I accepted a while ago that staying here would mean letting go of many aspects of being a Hobbit."

"We never wanted you to have to sacrifice to be here," Dwalin began, and no, they were not dredging up that old argument.

"I know you did not, and I haven't, not really. Not at all," Bilbo said with a fair amount of exasperation. Honestly, they did worry so! _Fuss_ pots.

"And yet...?" Thorin trailed off meaningfully, the question fairly apparent.

"Oh, my loves, I'm just being maudlin and ridiculous. A bit homesick, perhaps? Don't be getting worried on me," Bilbo insisted, when they frowned into their plates. "I am _certainly_ not going anywhere, not for silly hobbit celebrations, or lonely hobbit holes or anything of that fancy. I have the two of you, don't I? And the rest of the gits," he added, gesturing out to the singing, dancing throng.

"Is it so terribly difficult to ask us for things?" Dwalin asked with no small amount of his own exasperation, and snorted when Bilbo frowned at him. "Thorin, use that eloquent majesty thing and explain it to him proper like, eh?"

"Balin and Galf write my speeches," Thorin sighed, but he took Bilbo's empty plate and set it aside so he could draw Bilbo around to look at him directly. "Katagilemul habanuh, you are a delight and a balm, a gift beyond compare to us. If there is a thing we can do to make it so that you will never be unhappy here, then we will do it. Why are we still arguing this after three years?" he asked over Bilbo's head directly to Dwalin, when Bilbo's face turned obstinate. "Why must you always go out of your way to make yourself more Dwarf for us, when it is the Hobbit that we met in the Shire that we love?"

"I _don't_ -"

"You do, and that isn't a bad thing," Dwalin interrupted. "Agreed, why are we still arguing this after all these years? Bilbo, why have you never told us of this celebration? Or how important it is to you?"

"It's not that important."

"Important enough to trade a pile of rubies for geese, though. And have a large pile of gifts stored in the reading nook in your study?" Thorin asked, and Bilbo thumped him lightly on the shoulder and scowled.

"You were not supposed to be peeking at those," he admonished.

"We were fetching more chairs," Dwalin defended, and snuffled into Bilbo's shoulder, making the hobbit giggle when his beard tickled at his neck. "The geese were very much appreciated, I should add."

"He ate half a goose before you even got here," Thorin agreed, and reached to refill his cup, plonking the bottle on the floor beside him.

"If you spill that wine on my rug, I shall be very displeased with you," Bilbo warned. It had been a gift from Thranduil, and was the most lovely cream, with whorls of pale green woven through in intricate patterns. Bilbo loved it. Thorin and Dwalin grumbled about it on a semi-frequent basis.

However, they kept it because he loved it, and so Bilbo was not surprised when Thorin carefully moved the bottle to a side table with only the smallest of eye rolls.

"I haven't been deliberately keeping this from you," Bilbo said after a moment. "We've had a busy few years, if you'll remember, and I haven't had time to properly think about what is happening in the Shire at any one time."

"But this year?" Dwalin prodded, and waved Holf off when he shouted for Dwalin to come and join a game that had started. 

"It's quieter this year. Not very much to keep me busy, I'm afraid," Bilbo sighed.

"And homesick," Thorin added with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, honestly, not even really homesick, not properly. More petulant displacement than anything."

"What the fuck is petulant displacement?" Dwalin wondered a moment later, chugging down the last of his ale.

"Blowed if I know," Bilbo admitted, and they sat, watching their family for long, long moments.

"What a ridiculous conversation this is," Bilbo sighed, and the three began to laugh quietly.

"Petulant displacement," Thorin said.

"Oh shut it, you have an eight dwarf team to write your speeches," Bilbo chuckled, and Dwalin snorted.

" _Two_ dwarf team, thank you very much," Thorin said with a pout.

"Pft, Balin and Galf aren't masochists, they make the underlings do most of it," Bilbo told him, and Dwalin giggled into his shoulder.

Dís was in a drunken battle of dance moves with Bombur, across the room, and her lads were in hysterics on the floor watching, with the Ri brothers hooting and encouraging both parties, Bofur on the flute again. 

"No such thing as a reasonable progression of events, with you lot," Bilbo said, with no small amount of amusement. "Put you all in a room with ale and good food and you're drunken sots throwing taters at the walls in minutes."

"Why waste time?" Dwalin shrugged, and bellowed an encouragement across to Bombur.

"This is what you wanted?" Thorin asked absently, shaking his head when his sister stumbled into a wall and one of the hastily procured and decorated greens fell and hit her in the head. She shouted a challenge and groped for an axe that wasn't there, and Bombur pulled off a twirling flourish of fast tapping dance steps that had the onlookers roaring and the bets settled. Bombur _always_ won when challenged to dance.

"This is," Bilbo grinned, barely wincing when one of Fíli's throwing knives embedded itself in the wall some feet above his head care of Dís.

"We'll make it so it happens every year, then," Thorin nodded decisively. Bilbo twisted so he could rest his head against Thorin's shoulder to watch the shenanigans more clearly, while managing to get his tired feet into Dwalin's lap. On cue, their big lover absently settled his hands to rub at sore muscles.

"Going to change an entire mountain for one silly Hobbit custom?" Bilbo asked, and then cooing happily at his sneakily won foot rub.

"I don't see why not," Thorin said, and snuffled into Bilbo's neck. "What do we call this, anyway?"

"Yule," Bilbo said.

Bombur's youngest three tore past, screaming and shouting as they went.

"Why do you call it that?" Dwalin asked, wincing.

"Buggers me," Bilbo said, and nudged at his lover until the foot massage started anew.

***

What started as an impromptu feast became a seven hour long party, with Bilbo somehow managing to go several rounds of the room, playing and laughing with all his mob, bestowing his hoarded gifts onto all his beloved family, taught them a half dozen seasonal songs and also a bawdy new tune he had heard in a tavern of Men on his last diplomatic visit to Dale. He'd downed more than a sensible share of ale, eaten enough for even a Hobbit to feel uncomfortably full, won three bets, broken a chair (best not spoken of again. _Ever_ , he warned them all), and tucked blankets around both babes and adults snoozing in and on and under his sitting room furniture. 

And finally managed to lure his equally podged lovers into that bath. 

(Which had gone as swimmingly as he had planned. Because Bilbo was _brilliant_ , obviously.)

"I feel quite ridiculous," Bilbo mused, and then yawned, and och, he'd be feeling that ache tomorrow. It was well worth it. Dwalin had one heck of a cock on him, and Bilbo had managed to swallow the lot. It was _delicious_.

"Whysat?" Thorin mumbled, looking particularly fetching with his hair a riotous mess on the pillow. Neither of them could ever hope to compare to Thorin's post-coital muss.

"Drifting about like a pimply morose tweenling, really. Over nothing. I'm a brat."

"Doesn't have to be a life changing tragedy to justify your feelings," Dwalin said sleepily. "You are allowed to be unhappy for small reasons. What? I'm deep!" he half-heartedly protested, when his lovers peered at him oddly. "Also, if I get hard again in the next ten minutes, will you do that again?" he asked Bilbo, thrusting his hips a little, and then ruining it with a rather large yawn.

"If you can harden again in ten minutes, you'll deserve it," Bilbo murmured, and snuggled down further under the blankets, closing his eyes. It wasn't going to happen. He was just that good.

"You're happy, though, aren't you? In general?" Thorin asked, and yanked a boneless Dwalin over to cover his other side. Bilbo's nose was already smushed into his ribcage.

"Of course. Any day with the two of you is enough to bring me joy," Bilbo mumbled.

"Don't keep things like this from us," Dwalin said, throwing an arm over the both of them. "Little things are important to us if they are important to you."

Bilbo convinced his eyes to open long enough to regard his loves for a moment. "As you say, my darlings," he admitted finally, and then ruined his serious moue with a face-splitting yawn.

"Joyous Yule, my loves."

Thorin hummed. "At least until next week."

"What?" Bilbo blurted, suddenly awake, and half bolting up from his comfortable nest. "What do you mean by that?"

"You gotta give us another shot at it," Dwalin mumbled into Thorin's shoulder.

"We didn't know about the presents or anything," Thorin complained sleepily, tugging Bilbo back in. "We demand the chance to perform adequately."

"Kíli wants to invite his elf," Dwalin said glumly.

"We'll have to get more geese," Thorin mused.

"But it won't be midwinter," Bilbo complained dumbly, and Dwalin snorted.

"Still a great wall of snow out there, and nothing much better to do except stay warm by the forges."

"Huh," Bilbo mused, turning that over a moment, and the three of them fell silent, Thorin dropping into a light snore.

"Yule twice in one year," Bilbo said softly, closing his eyes. "I can do that."

He yawned and fell silent, snuggling down and listening to Thorin's snuffling snores.

Dwalin poked him.

"I'm hard again."

***

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of an odd fic, but eh. I do hope it pleased miss drak. Because I adore her.
> 
> Imrilamá: Sort of appropriated from poplitealqueen's dwarven endearments post, and then promptly butchered, lols. She posted Imrilamê, which was : "love of mine... imril is ‘love’. Commonly, adding a -u, but in this case–to keep from having a double vowel, it’s just ‘assumed’ here. Amê is ‘mine’". I went and changed the amê for mine, to amá for 'our'. So sort of 'love of ours'? pop's dwarven endearment post is here:
> 
> http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/122134018419/dwarven-endearments
> 
> Katagilemul habanuh: Sparkling Gem


End file.
